


Not So Cold Feet

by theblindtorpedo



Series: Trans!Man Fiddleford/Stanley Fics [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Falling In Love, Fluff, M/M, Old Age, One Shot, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 11:32:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5289107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stan gives Fiddleford a bath. He is not as opposed to this as he should be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not So Cold Feet

The rain was falling in sheets, the image of the world outside indiscernible through the torrential downpour and a heavy fog that left the whole forest in greyscale. On the old bed Stan turned on his side, curling inward to hug his knees to his chest. The thin sheet barely kept the cold out. His bones ached. At least the others would be warm, he reassured himself, while mourning the sacrificed extra quilts and duvet.

It took another ten agonizing minutes of grumbles and goosebumps until he finally admitted defeat. Sliding out of the bed, Stan placed his feet into his slippers, drawing the maroon dressing gown closer as he crept down the rickety steps to the kitchen. The old light bulb flickered menacingly. He dared it to blow out, glaring at the ceiling as he pulled open the fridge. Milk. Microwave. Warm cup. That had been the plan. At least, until a loud shriek pierced his ears.

He recognized the sound immediately, trained well over the last couple weeks. An outsider would have assumed that some poor animal had found its way to the Shacks’ vicinity, but Stan knew those strangled vocals belonged to no animal. Except, the yell was coming from outside, a place where it certainly was not supposed to be.

Milk forgotten he dashed to the Shack’s front, throwing open the door and squinting through the fog. His stomach clenched in worry. Despite a deficit of clothes, a rush of adrenaline left him momentarily immune to the biting cold. But with his focus on the yard ahead Stan was not prepared for the sudden clawing at his legs. A roar and he staggered backwards, dislodging the loose grip. Eyes sunk downward to see what had assaulted him.

Fiddleford McGucket lay in the doorway, hand still poised over the empty air where Stan’s leg had just been. Stan released a breath he had not realized he had even been holding.

He pushed the door shut with one hand, grabbing Fiddleford by a wrist with the other, yanking him out of the way and into a wobbly standing position.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he said, but there was no menace in it, the words instead falling out in a strained, worried whine. Fiddleford blinked wetly, confused. He looked awful; his beard was uneven, torn since Stan had last seen him at dinner that night. The full forest green sweater Mabel had given him was dark with water and heavy with mud where it hung on his small frame. Equally dirty pants were suctioned tight to his scrawny legs, exposing the sharp bones underneath. A true sorry sight, although Fiddleford seemed oblivious to his state. He looked at Stan with the widest smile on his face as if he’d just encountered a puppy on the street.

“Don’t look at me like that, you nearly gave me a heart attack!” Stan accused. “. . . did I hurt you?”

“Oh not a bit! Right as this here rain. Golly, I did frighten ya didn’t I? Thought I saw a-a BEAST out ‘n’ prowlin’. See, I was gonna sleep on this here porch, so I had ta protect mahself. Them monsters don’t take kindly ta when ya yell back at them! That’s an old trick of mine!” Fiddleford winked sheepishly.

“You shouldn’t have to be defending yourself from anything. You’re SUPPOSED to be inside! On the couch where we put you with the blankets taken from MY bed. Don’t tell me I was freezing my ass off for nothing.”

Fiddleford’s features fell, mirth seamlessly shifting to self-deprecating remorse. “G-gee I’m sorry. I was only gonna have some talk with that goat what wanders round this here Shack, but then I couldn’t get back in so I was gonna stay out til mornin’. I didn’t want to be no more trouble.”

Fiddleford had done nothing wrong bar the usual disregard for his own well being. Stan felt guilt bubble up in his stomach, along with the sudden urge to wrap the smaller man in his arms, but the dirt on Fiddleford and his own pride stayed his hand. Instead, he shrugged the dressing gown from his shoulders, offering it out with a speechless grunt. A tacit reassurance that he was not angry. Fiddleford took the robe gingerly, before slipping it around his shaking shoulders. A gnarled hand lifted the sleeve so he could press his face against it. The fabric was still warm. It smelled of Stan, a deep musk of sweat and cheap aftershave. A pleased hum escaped his lips.

The hum became a squeak as he found himself scooped up in Stan’s arms, the robe now a full barrier against any spread of dirt.

“Sweet sasparilla!" he gasped, "What on earth are ya doin' ta me?”

The hard set of Stan’s jaw above him evidenced gritted teeth. There was no reply. Fiddleford quickly accepted his fate, although had he wanted to he figured he could have given a good fight. Instead, he enjoyed the heat emanating off Stan; it washed over him in soothing waves. He squirmed slightly, Stan’s hands tightening in response, finally folding himself into a more comfortable position. Fiddleford’s head was now pressed to Stan’s chest, direct contact with the pulsing source of warmth. He was suddenly aware of how absolutely tired he felt. When had he last slept? Perhaps more than a day ago. Eyes drooped as he grew lethargic, lulled by the soft sway of their pace. Stan avoided looking at Fiddleford’s face, staring with determination straight ahead as he carried the smaller man through the dim hallways. The floorboards creaked in protest at their combined weight.

Reaching the bathroom, a calculated full body push left the door swinging open, and once inside, Fiddleford was lowered into the tub with unexpected gentleness. Stan pulled the robe out from under him, draping it over his arm.

“You should clean up,” Stan said curtly, and then he fled.

He trusted that Fiddleford knew what to do. When he had begrudgingly accepted their new houseguest Mabel had declared herself in charge of Fiddleford’s rehabilitation and self-care, which was perfectly fine with everyone else. Despite his years of squalor, the old man was eager and receptive to cleanliness, unlike her brother. But old habits were hard to break. The first time Stan had heard an awful ruckus of yelling and splashing from the bathroom, so he had knocked on the door inquiring to whether everything and everybody within was intact, and Mabel had called through the door that she “had it under control.” That was enough reassurance for him. In truth he was grateful he could get away with shirking any extra responsibility. He had not asked for Fiddleford to be foisted on him, but as long as he was not bothered he allowed the new project. So he kept out of the way whenever Mabel stalked the house holding an obscenely pink shampoo bottle and sponge, searching for her victim. And when it was his time Fiddleford would disappear, only to shamble into the kitchen a couple hours later in a new sweater and smelling faintly of strawberries.

This was the routine. At least until the one day Stan looked up from his TV to see Fiddleford McGucket standing three feet away from him wearing only a blue towel around his waist. A choked noise escaped Stan’s throat. The full expanse of skin blinded and captivated. He had never considered Fiddleford’s appearance before, but now he found himself unintentionally examining the other man. Fiddleford looked . . . soft. Yes, that was the only word he could think of. Eyes swept from the small swell of stomach up the thin chest. Fiddleford’s beard looked still damp, but it had obviously been subject to aggressive drying. It was uncharacteristically fluffed out, comical in contrast to his protruding neck. Fiddleford was not tall, but he was long. Yet there was an unexpected grace to the sweeping lines of his body laid bare. One could easily imagine he had once been remarkably in tune with these gangly limbs, the expert mechanic, all dexterous fingers and flexible arms.

Now Fiddleford fidgeted as he waited nervously for Mabel, who had taken to hurriedly drawing a diagram for her brother, her human project momentarily forgotten. Dipper was nodding in agreement as Mabel pointed out the different features of this new art piece. This drawing of course involved at least three different colours and, from Stan’s point of view, was very complicated. Fiddleford’s toes wiggled and his hands kneaded the edge of the towel, but although agitates he was patient as he watched the twins’ exchange, a faraway look in his eye.

“Grunkle Stan you’re staring,” Dipper commented.

“What!” Stan threw his arms out dramatically, head snapping to glare obviously at Dipper. “Well, of course, I’m staring! I’ve seen a lot of weird lookin’ things in my house, but that,” a hand wave at Fiddleford “That has got to take the cake.” His voice cracked on the last syllable

“You walk around in a towel all the time,” Dipper said, unimpressed.

“That’s different.”

“Mister McGucket,” Mabel said, hopping down from her chair and taking Fiddleford’s hand, “why don’t you come with me? It’s too distracting here.” She stuck her tongue out at her brother, “And Grunkle Stan can’t stop looking at how beautiful and clean you are!”

“Mabel, please!”

Fiddleford silently watched Stan over his shoulder as he was led out of the room. It should be illegal for an adult to look that pure and innocent, Stan thought, sinking back into the chair.

 

Fiddleford was still sitting fully clothed in the unfilled tub when Stan returned, the lack of water sounds drawing his curiosity.

“I thought I told you to wash yourself.”

“H-here!” Fiddleford was rocking slowly back and forth in agitation.

“What?” Stan felt his hackles rise, eyes flicking defensively around the room in search of whatever had spooked Fiddleford.

“That darn prospector what lives in my mirror! He’s a-followin’ me!” an accusatory finger pointed. Stan followed the line to see the sink mirror and the top half of Fiddleford’s head reflected, slight grown out tufts of hair trembling atop it. Fiddleford had wild, frightened eyes locked with his double. Stan pinched his nose, before shifting to block Fiddleford’s sight with his own body. Immediately, the older man seemed to calm. His eyebrows drooped down and shoulders sagged with relief.

“That’s your reflection numbskull. No one’s following you. There’s no one here except me and the kids.”

“Y-ya sure?”

“I am absolutely, completely certain.” A nod for emphasis. “I only let people in my house that I want here.”

“Ooooh,” Fiddleford cooed and Stan felt an unwanted warmth spread through his face. He prayed it didn’t show.

“I guess, uh, if you need me to, I can sit here while you do it. Keep all the other crazies out. Heh.”

“It?”

“I _told_ you to get clean,” Stan grabbed the soap waving it in Fiddleford’s face. “I won’t have you dragging mud all though this house and you can’t sleep in these clothes.”

Fiddleford fixed him with a genuine look of surprise.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Stan muttered. Then more loudly, “Look, d-do you need help? God, I know I wish I had some help sometimes. Gets difficult to do things when you’re old. I can relate.”

“Well,” Fiddleford drawled, “that’s mighty fine of ya. Bein’ old is right strange. Sometimes mah bones crack while I’m sleepin’ and I wake mahself up in the middle of mah dreamin’. Then I can’t sleep again ‘til I’ve counted all the wrenches in the junkyard.”

“Well you’re not doing that tonight, since I’m not letting you leave this house. You’re gonna be all clean, and you’re gonna sleep in a REAL bed so Mabel doesn’t have my head in the morning. And . . . and I’ll help you. Just put your arms up.”

Fiddleford obliged and raised his arms. Stan dropped the soap and kneeled, flinching at his own cracking joints. He leaned in, gripping the edges of the sweater. As he tugged upwards he felt a hitch in Fiddleford’s breath. The pale chest was slowly exposed, the sunken ribcage, faded scars, brown nipples that pebbled slightly at the air brushing over them. The garment was eventually shimmied off and thrown on the bathtub’s edge. Fiddleford self-consciously crossed his arms over his chest, gazing up shyly.

There was a pregnant pause. And then slowly, Stan lowered his hand until it touched Fiddleford’s knee. He kept his gaze steady, looking at Fiddleford’s face so as to avoid looking at what he was going to do. He didn’t want to spook the other man any further.

His hand climbed the seam of Fiddleford’s pants to the top and then traced the waistband.

“You gotta work with me here.”

Fiddleford raised his hips and Stan peeled the pants and the underwear down (oh god he had forgotten that Fiddleford was wearing _his_ boxers), removing them so they joined the sweater. There was no sound except the slick slide of fabric and their breathing echoing in the room.

“Water,” Stan croaked in explanation as he leaned forward, turning the faucet on. The crashing rush of water filled the previous silence, and as it swirled into the tub Stan somehow felt it was washing away the tension in the room. Liquid hands lifted the nerves and discomfort from his shoulders.

When the tub was full, there was already a slight murk forming. Fiddleford was submerged up to his waist and Stan knew he could let his eyes wander now. Yet he found he didn’t want to look away from Fiddleford’s face. The other man was no longer focused on Stan, instead engaged by the water. He danced his fingers across its surface making a multitude of splashes and ripples that broke and cracked against each other. Fiddleford swung the islands of his knees back and forth, turbulent waves sweeping up against the porcelain, spattering at Stan’s shirt. He seemed unfairly pleased by this, crowing to himself and shaking his head before turning a wide grin up at the man watching him with unknown intent.

“Woah, McGucket I never noticed. You have blue eyes.”

Stan’s utterance dripped incredulity. He was so used to the dark brown of his own, or the sparkling amber of the twins’. Otherwise he paid little attention to eyes. Yet Fiddleford’s were arresting, a sparkling light blue that shined playfully.

Fiddleford winked and chortled again, his mouth opening wide and the gold tooth glinted under the overhead light. Then Stan laughed too, the full ridiculousness of the situation hitting him. He was sitting in a bathroom with a naked man. A man naked by his own hands. This was the most intimate gesture he’d given to someone since that night in Miami thirty-five years ago. Except now it was Crazy Old Man McGucket instead of a young architecture student named Javier. Yet here he still felt it, the same wash of inevitability. Back then it had led to his tired limbs splayed across rough sheets, Spanish endearments whispered in his ear. Promises of forevers. Except those forevers had never come; the night had ended with him running from the point of Javier’s father’s gun. He had slept in an alley, nursing the lacerations from his escape through the wire fence. But perhaps more painful had been the look on Javier’s face when they had first been found. He had turned to Stan with not surprise nor fear, but resignation, the instant recognition of a relationship shattered beyond repair.

Stan realized then that love was a luxury. One he could not afford.

But he was older now. In his own house he had nothing to fear, no matter what spirits Fiddleford might feel were haunting him. He had that right, Stan thought, nothing scarier than bearing witness to their own dilapidated bodies.

Still, he had to admit he felt fortified seeing Fiddleford fully naked before him. The older man was smaller, frailer, and Stan felt giant in comparison. He felt strong. God, he loved feeling strong. Then he was not Stanley Pines, the eternal failure, but instead he could feel able, capable.

He had gotten himself into this situation. Stanley Pines had many infatuations, he should have seen the signs, but by now he had fallen too far. He could feel himself drowning and yet there was no struggle to surface. Too heady with amorousness, Stan concluded that it was far too late to fight against his own emotions. Or perhaps he was trying to rationalize his behavior. If he was here he might as well embrace it.

Stan scooped the soap up, coating his hands before he reached up around Fiddleford’s shoulders. He smoothed down the defensive hunch, his other hand coming up to cup at Fiddleford’s side. Slowly he began to swipe back and forth. Bubbles grew under his touch.

“Oh, that’s mighty nice,” Fiddleford whispered, more an exhalation than full speech.

Stan started to rub more purposefully, gentle circles massaging the lean muscles. He ran his hands along sinewy arms until they were knocking knuckles. He stroked at Fiddleford’s sides, tapping along ribs, sweeping soap into every nook and cranny on the other man’s body. It was difficult to tell which of them was more mesmerized by his actions. He kneaded at stomach, dipping down to circle the belly button. Fiddleford giggled.

“Ooh, ya better watch yerself. Ah, I’m-. Down there.”

“I’m not going down there.”

Fiddleford looked relieved.

“At least not tonight,” Stan added with a smirk. He could not help feeling smug at the sudden blush that exploded across the other man’s face.

He continued to scrub until the skin was slick and smooth. Fiddleford took the ministrations in stride, emitting small pants and rumbles of contentment. He arched into the touches, moving when needed, keeping his eyes on Stan. With that sweet gaze fixed on him Stan was invigorated. He wanted to be the best. He wanted to impress. Stan made it his goal to reduce the other man to jelly in his hands, to make those eyes flutter in pleasure, disappearing under long lashes. He’s like a cat, Stan thought, slicking his hands again.

Almost done.

Finally, he moved his hands up to Fiddleford’s neck. But before he could start again, he felt the pressure of Fiddleford’s palm covering his own. Stan became suddenly aware of the throbbing heartbeat under his fingertips. Or maybe it was his own.

Fiddleford kissed him. It was inevitable.

 

Stan stumbled into the bedroom, the quilt he had dragged back off the couch slung over his shoulder. He was awkwardly conscious of his own exhaustion. Fiddleford was lying where Stan had left him, already fast asleep. He was snoring, a reedy whistling sound. Stan climbed into the bed, careful not to jostle his companion as he pulled the cover over both of them. Fiddleford snuffled, punctuating with a snort as he rolled over in his sleep. Facing Stan he could now take advantage of the opportunity burrow close, pressing up against the giving rotundity of Stan’s chest and stomach. And in turn Stan wrapped an arm around Fiddleford locking them together. As his own eyes fell shut, he lightly stroked the spine underneath his hand. Fiddleford sighed.

At least for tonight, there would be no more danger of cold.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was written for the awesome Felix @ www.senor-skitso.tumblr.com. Go check out his art, it's such prime content!
> 
> And also for more like this you may also like my blog www.fiddlestan.tumblr.com.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Rates and reviews would be greatly appreciated. ❤️


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